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Every Party Needs a Pooper!

Photo by: Shutterstock

We rarely get invited to parties outside of family functions. Let me rephrase. We rarely get invited back to parties or functions.

For years, I’ve assumed that our invites have been lost in the mail. A bucket full of beautiful invitations to amazing parties just sitting at the post office, as a uniformed postal worker throws in yet another envelope, while thinking, “These people must be fabulous. If only the address had been legible!”

Truth be told, we ARE fabulous. We are also loud. And even when on our best behavior, there is still a swirling air of disaster and dirt following us as we move, tornado like, through your freshly vacuumed, party-ready home.

The children give it their best shot, but they will likely destroy your festivus, while I hover romantically near the French Onion dip. I don’t get out much, and came (prepared) wearing maternity pants. If you need me, I’ll be sitting next to your food table in the folding beach chair I brought from home. Why yes, that is a cup holder. How kind of you to notice, I’d love a drink!

The nature of the event does not matter, nor do our unanswered pleas for their best behavior. How can I put this delicately? Sh** is going to go south. Quickly.
Would we love to see you perform with your choir? Yes, we would love to! Would you love to have your choir’s performance interrupted by some surprisingly well-placed organ pedal pressing by our two year-old? Hello? Hello?

Have I walked out of a party with only three of my children? Possibly, but it was the eldest, so I’m sure (with a stool) she could have foraged for snacks and eventually found a phone.

Have we left a party without our two year-old? Maybe, but it was dark and confusing, and she was singing back-up karaoke at the time. If we had disturbed her performance, that would have been worse. An artist should never be pulled away from her work; and besides, we were only halfway down the street, so I void this party foul on a technicality.

Admittedly, we are a formidable crew of unrelenting noise/tears/squeals of delight, and we have been known to clear a well-stocked kitchen faster than a team of locusts. Still, we are a package deal; like Vikings or a gang-fueled prison riot, you get all of us or nothing.

So, be prepared! We are the Field of Dreams family: if you invite us, we will come, but may I suggest hiding the port cheese ball and expensive liquor? At the very least, closet your breakables.

If you promise to ignore my nervous, awkward conversation and the inevitable lipstick on my teeth, I can (almost) certainly (possibly) promise not to leave one of my children as collateral for an invitation to your next soiree.

Happy New Year!

Bethany Thies is a mother of four, writer and rehabilitated gypsy who now calls Vermont home. She can change a diaper in 22 seconds and is the proud author of the chronic sarcasm and tom-foolery blog, Bad Parenting Moments.

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